Harriet doesn’t really, but she nods.
‘Makes it worse somehow. I mean, him caring. Minding. I thought he’d just turn a blind eye, hope the whole thing would burn itself out.’ She stops on the stair, looks down at Harriet on the tread below, voice hardening. ‘It won’t. Something like this, it’s . . .’ Her eyes glisten; she wipes an impatient hand across her nose. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, please,’ Harriet reassures her, her own eyes prickling. It’s hard to fathom who deserves her sympathy most. ‘Does Mary know? About the confrontation?’
Rhona hesitates. They’ve reached the café in the foyer, busy with visitors, one or two ambulant patients enjoying a break with their families. No instant coffee in paper cups here; the tantalising aroma of freshly ground beans hangs in the air. Harriet’s stomach suddenly awakes to its emptiness; a vague dull throb above one eye warns her she ignores the signals at her peril. She indicates a seat. ‘You sit. My treat.’
When she returns with two black coffees and a tomato and goat’s cheese bruschetta for herself, Rhona having declined food, Harriet finds her companion in a mellower mood. ‘Thanks. That looks tasty.’
‘I can easily get you—’
‘No, really. Listen, Harriet . . .’ Rhona leans forward, hands entwined on the table; Harriet admires her toned, muscular forearms. ‘I can be a bit . . . abrasive at times, sorry.’ Harriet bats the apology away. ‘No, please. I know you’ve been caught up in all this mess by accident. You’re supposed to be on holiday, for God’s sake!’
Some holiday, thinks Harriet.
‘And in answer to your earlier question: no. I haven’t told Mary about Ron. About him knowing. Call me deceitful, call me cowardly, but I was afraid—that it would force her to choose.’ She looks down into her coffee, says in barely more than a whisper, ‘I thought I might lose her.’
CHAPTER 24
Ben and Nats are staring up at the bedroom windows, she with barely contained irritation, he cursing the fact he hadn’t thought to check first. What a cretin.
‘You didn’t think to ring her, then?’ says the girl. ‘Check she was in? Before we biked all the way over here.’
‘She’s always in,’ mutters Ben. He’s trying not to show how out of breath he is, having struggled to keep up with his companion’s apparently effortless rhythm on the ride over.
‘Well, patently not,’ says Nats. ‘Unless she’s hiding.’
‘Why on earth would she be—’
‘Joke.’
‘Oh.’ He tries the bell again.
‘Did you give the toothpaste a go?’
‘The what?’ He’d heard perfectly well.
‘Toothpaste. I wondered if it works.’
Ben is wondering too. He thinks his skin looks marginally better, feels smoother, but he’s not going to ask for her opinion. No way.
A faint snatch of song from along the road saves him from having to respond. He sprints out on to the pavement. ‘Wotcha!’
Daria is wheeling the buggy towards him, upending it periodically to sing the refrain of a nursery rhyme—at least he assumes that’s what it is, as it seems to be in Belarusian—into Milo’s face. He is squealing with delight, legs kicking in ecstasy with each repetition.
‘Ben!’ She stops singing and bends down to Milo, pointing. ‘Look, soneyka, is Ben!’ The baby, deprived of his game, had been about to roar his displeasure, but the sight of one of his favourite people sends him into further paroxysms of joy. He stretches out his pudgy arms as far as the buggy straps will allow, straining for release as the teenager swoops towards him like an aeroplane.
‘We wondered where you’d gone,’ he says, pressing the little snub nose like a button.
Milo gurgles.
‘We?’ Daria peers past him.
‘Yeah, I brought my . . . a mate. To meet Milo.’
‘Only Milo?’ says Daria with feigned hurt.
‘What ? Oh, you an’ all. ’Course.’
‘We are visiting Finbar, are we not, Milo? With no Harriet and Hester, I think: poor old man, he will be lonely. I take him piece of my antonovka apples pie—except not antonovka because your country does not—oh!’ They have reached the gate and she is staring with astonishment at the girl sitting cross-legged on the doorstep. ‘Hello?’ says Daria, suspiciously, unwilling to push her son towards the stranger until there is some indication of her intent.
‘Oh, yeah,’ says Ben, squeezing past her and the buggy. ‘This is Nats. My—’
‘Girlfriend,’ says Nats before he can finish. She dares Ben to contradict her, eyes dancing with mischief behind her glasses. ‘Ben’s always talking about you and Milo, and I really wanted to meet you. Hope you don’t mind? Oh, isn’t he the cutest thing?!’ And before Ben, Daria or Milo have a chance to react, Nats has leapt to her feet, freed Milo from his harness with one snap and is holding him at arm’s length, pulling faces. For a brief moment Milo, eyebrows comically raised, regards this apparition with alarm, then he reaches out and takes firm hold of one of her braids. Nats mimes first wide-eyed surprise, then mock terror and finally elation, and Milo, entranced, is lost.
‘Sorry. Better let you get the door open,’ she says, stepping aside, as Daria, speechless, finds herself wheeling the buggy up the path, and fumbling in her pockets for her keys, all the while staring at her visitor, now engaged in a pretend tug of war with her son, still clinging triumphantly to his prize and trying to grab another with his other hand, while Nats swings her braids tantalisingly from side to side.
Ben and Daria lift the buggy into the hall, she hissing, ‘Ben, that is a black girl!’ as though he might not have noticed.
‘Really?’
‘Do not be durylka!’
‘You what?’
Daria scrabbles for the epithet. ‘Idiot! This girl, she is your—’
‘Yeah. Well, no . . . well—’
‘For real?’ Now Daria has got over the shock, she finds herself rather relieved; there have been times when she has thought Ben was looking at her . . . not as Ben should. Artem, unsurprisingly given the rocky nature of his relationship with the youngster, has hinted as much more than once. ‘Well, she is . . . she is very pretty girl. What is the name again?’
‘Nats,’ says its owner, following them into the kitchen, having overhead Daria’s judgement. She has Milo on one hip as though she has carried countless babies before. ‘Short for Natalie.’ She pulls a face. ‘Grim, eh?’
‘No,’ says Daria. ‘I have cousin Nataly. Pretty girl, pretty name.’
‘Thanks,’ says Nats, turning her attention back to Milo, who is still looking at her intently, and sucking the end of one braid.
From across the kitchen, Ben regards her with a mixture of exasperation and jealousy. Barging in as if she owns the place. Making eyes at Milo. It’s only the novelty, he thinks. It’s not like she’s spent the amount of time with him that I have. Bet she hasn’t the first idea about what he eats, bedtime and all that. He’ll soon get bored with her.
‘Kettle, Ben?’ says Daria. ‘I think Natalie will like some tea?’
Nats would.
‘And I have special Belarusian biscuits—you would like to try?’
Nats would.
Ben turns the tap savagely, spraying his jeans with water as it hits the bottom of the kettle.
‘I make these,’ says Daria, prising open the tin. ‘But I must hide from Ben. He is very greedy, no?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ says Nats. ‘Ooh, these look delicious. I’m always saying—aren’t I, Ben?—leave some for me, will you!’ She laughs gaily and Daria joins in.
Ben slams the kettle back on its base and glares at Nats. She reaches across and neatly flicks the switch to turn it on. He could murder her.
‘I hope it’s not inconvenient, us just dropping in like this, Daria.’ Nats breaks off a tiny piece of biscuit. ‘May I?’ Ben waits for the explosion of horror from Daria; she has always been adamant about not feeding Milo between meals.
‘Well . .
.’ says Daria. ‘Little treat, yes? Just for special times.’
Milo crams the fragment into his mouth and gums it deliriously. Nats and Daria laugh.
Mugs crash down onto the counter, one, two, three.
‘Careful, Ben!’ cries Daria crossly. She shakes her head at Nats: men, eh? They exchange a conspiratorial smile.
‘You are in class with Ben?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Nats, sounding suitably awed, ‘he’s older than me.’
‘So you do not study your books as hard as poor Ben?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ A blinding smile at poor Ben. ‘I work pretty hard most of the time.’
‘Ben, he work hard because he is going to be famous cook one day.’
‘Chef,’ says Ben quickly.
‘I know,’ says Nats reverently. ‘How brilliant is that? A famous cook.’
‘Chef!’ Are they deaf or what?
‘And you?’ asks Daria. ‘You have a dream, too?’
‘Well . . .’ says Nats with apparent reluctance and modesty. ‘Not nearly so exciting as Ben. I just want to be a lawyer. A barrister.’
Ben slops boiling water onto the counter.
‘A barrister?’ breathes Daria. ‘Like on the TV? With the white . . .’ She flaps a hand.
‘Wig, yeah.’
‘And the black . . . er . . .’
‘Gown, yeah.’
‘You hear this, Ben? You have very clever girlfriend.’
‘Yeah,’ says Ben wringing the dishcloth viciously into the sink, ‘don’t I know it.’
Nats is careful not to outstay her welcome. She stops just long enough to comprehensively charm Daria and Milo, whose face crumples when, gently loosening his grip on her hair, she gets up to leave.
‘Aw, don’t cry, little one,’ she says, caressing his head as he sobs on his mother’s shoulder. ‘See you soon, I hope.’
‘I hope too,’ says Daria, smiling broadly.
Ben noisily drains his mug and reaches for another biscuit.
Nats picks up her bag and slings it across her body. ‘Have a great time tomorrow night, won’t you? Ben says you’re off to a céilidh.’
‘A what?’ asks Daria in bewilderment, saving Ben the trouble.
‘A céilidh. Barn dance. That’s what they call them in Scotland and Ireland.’
‘Well, we’re in England, aren’t we?’ says Ben sulkily.
Nats widens her eyes at Daria, who laughs.
‘You staying?’ says Nats to Ben, with an infinitesimal jerk of her head towards the front door.
‘Yeah, just for a bit . . .’
‘You are letting Natalie ride alone?’ says Daria, frowning.
‘No worries,’ says Nats. ‘I ride all over. ’Sides, I cycle way faster than Ben.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t I, babes?’ Ben glowers. Nats beams. ‘Bye, Daria; bye-bye, Milo . . .’ She blows the baby a kiss.
Ben follows her out to her bike. ‘All right then?’ he hisses.
‘Beautiful baby,’ she says, fastening her helmet. ‘You got the hots for his mum or something?’
‘No!’
‘Just asking,’ she says, wheeling the bike out to the road. She stops. ‘You’re a rubbish actor, you know. No one in their right mind would believe we had a thing going.’
‘We haven’t!’ he says hotly.
Nats throws back her head and laughs. ‘Thank fuck.’
Daria appears in the doorway, Milo in her arms. ‘Natalie,’ she calls, ‘I am thinking. You want to come and look after Milo with Ben tomorrow evening? He would like very much.’
‘Ben or Milo?’ Nats calls back.
Daria wags a playful finger. ‘Naughty girl! Both! Both the boys love you!’
‘Yeah, right,’ mutters Ben.
‘I know,’ shouts Nats, pedalling away. ‘I’m irresistible. Thanks, Daria. I’d like that. See you!’
Ben slouches back into the house, shutting the door firmly.
‘What a lovely girl,’ says Daria, making for the stairs. ‘Good manners. You are lucky boy, Ben.’
He grunts noncommittally.
‘Though why she likes grumpy boy like you . . .’
‘I’m not grumpy!’
‘He say he’s not grumpy, Milo. Do we believe him? No. Lovely Natalie, she is not grumpy, is she, soneyka? But poor Ben has exams, he has to work so hard. Perhaps this makes him—oh, you are going? Not staying for bath time?’
‘No,’ says poor Ben, shrugging on his jacket. ‘On second thoughts, gotta get back to my books. See you.’
‘Oh . . . okay. Say goodbye, Milo. Hey, Ben, you ride fast, perhaps you catch Natalie, eh?’
Catch Natalie? Some hope.
CHAPTER 25
The cooks are clearing up, hindered rather than helped by the unfortunate Enrico, restored once more to his position as metaphorical punchbag for Signor Riccardi, whose good humour has lasted only until mid-afternoon. Remaining cordial and charming is clearly too much of a challenge for the great man, even as the end of his torment approaches. One day to go. One more day of squandering his immense talents on these dabblers. It is infuriating that the final day of the course—mio dio, why had he agreed to this all those months back?—involves his students preparing dinner for the other guests, supposedly to display the wealth of experience they have acquired over the week spent worshipping at his feet. It would be quicker and safer by far to do the entire meal himself, even with cretino Enrico by his side, rather than risk the trashing of his reputation by these halfwits. Al diavolo! He looks at the eager faces now gathered around him, awaiting his pronouncement. Perhaps if he keeps things really simple . . .
‘So, tomorrow is big day, no? Tomorrow you are cooking like in real restaurant for real diners. People are dreaming already of wonderful dishes, food of the gods.’ He kisses his fingers theatrically. ‘There will be flavours, beautiful. There will be ’erbs, a little spice, piccolo, sì? Too much and the dish is . . .’ He rotates his pudgy hands through the air as he searches for the word.
‘Overpowered?’ suggests Hester, increasingly wearied by his shtick and anxious to get away. Surely Harriet isn’t still at the hospital? She can’t hide forever . . .
Franco masks his irritation; it’s adulation he’s after, not participation. Still, the signora is his star pupil. ‘Overpower, yes. This we don’ like. No, no, no. So. The menu tomorrow.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘We start with the pasta. Always the pasta!’
What about antipasti? thinks Hester.
‘You and you—’ he points at Lionel and Melanie pugnaciously ‘—will prepare the linguine, yes?’
Hester, whose almost transparent linguine had been fulsomely praised by the maestro, is disappointed not to be chosen for this dish. ‘Remember, we use special flour—’
‘Farina di grano tenero,’ says Lionel eagerly.
Franco frowns at the interruption. ‘Yes, correct . . . We serve with the mussels, the clams, the baby squids, like I show you. Okay? And the parmesan, if we must, for the English. Pah!’ He considers the remainder of the class at length, eyes flicking from one person to the next appraisingly—aping, thinks Hester impatiently, the ridiculous judges on the TV cookery programmes whose deliberations take aeons. After a lifetime, the reliable teacher from Woking is allocated the making of the ciabatta, to be followed by gelato. He jabs a finger at the two middle-aged women who have gossiped and giggled their way through the course on the farthest stations. ‘Yes! For you, pollo ai semi di finocchio.’ The women frown uncertainly at Franco, then exchange panicky looks. ‘Finocchio? You remember?’
‘Fennel seeds,’ offers Hester, to spare the women’s blushes, disappointed not to be chosen for something savoury herself; she guesses what’s coming her way.
‘Of course!’ says Franco, a little coldly. ‘Thank you. Fennel. Ver’ popular in Italy. With the chicken. Enrico will assist with vegetables. And you, Hester cara, you are our queen of the puddings and pastries! So . . .’ He makes an exaggerated moue of regret as if to say, what did you expe
ct?
Hester accepts her fate, wanting only to get back to the hotel.
Franco leads a desultory round of applause. ‘Tomorrow, then, is the showcase. Much excitement. Much pressure. Here prompt at nine o’clock. No sleeping in! Early breakfast, much coffee and then we start. It will be great fun.’ Somehow he makes this sound more like a threat than something to look forward to.
‘Hester.’
Harriet steps away from the shadow of the wall, a glass of wine in each hand. Hester stops in mid-stride, blinking in the bright sunlight and almost overbalancing; Lionel, a few steps behind, puts out a steadying hand. The other students flow around the blockage on the path on their way back to the main building.
‘Can we talk?’ says Harriet. She holds up one glass. ‘Barolo.’
‘Hetty—’ starts Lionel.
‘Excuse us,’ says Harriet firmly, her eyes fixed on Hester’s face.
Lionel hesitates, then, at a nod from Hester, reluctantly slopes off towards the hotel. Harriet gestures to a nearby table below a vine-clad balustrade threaded through with wisteria with its distinctive vanilla and honey scent. ‘Shall we?’
The sisters sit facing each other across the wrought-iron table, Harriet sweeping aside a drift of fallen purple petals, shrivelled in the sun. They each raise their glasses to their lips in an awkward toast.
‘So?’ says Hester, swallowing, unable any longer to quell her indignation. ‘You took your time.’
Keep calm, Harriet cautions herself. Her jaw muscles tighten. ‘Do me the courtesy of hearing me out, will you.’ It’s not a request. ‘Without interruptions.’ She can see Hester fighting not to launch into a vituperative attack, opting instead for a gulp of wine. She takes this for acquiescence.
‘So . . .’ she begins.
‘Oh, God,’ whispers Hester, the wine turning to acid. She pushes her glass away with an unsteady hand. She looks across the table at Harriet: the mussed hair (it needs trimming, she thinks distractedly; Ben pops into her mind), the papery eyelids, the dark shadows under her eyes. Her gaze drops away. What have I done?
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 15